Austin Kleon, in his book, "Newspaper Blackout," says that "by destroying writing you can create new writing." I love the concept. He took newspapers and crossed out words and made his own poetry. newspaper-blackout-poems 

Instead of taking newspapers, I chose a book titled "People of the Book." (My apologies to author Geraldine Brooks.) I chose this book because I love the cover, the title seemed perfect, and I had two copies of it in my house.

I took the book and marker along while I waited for my daughter's orthodontist appointment. It fit in my purse. No large messy foldy newspaper. And I filled the room with the scent of permanent marker, not looking up until my daughter, finished and smiling, stood beside my chair. 

Here's my first try.

(figures curled together on a corner of polished paper

painted with amusement

so?

He just looked.

I blurted

What do you see?

A horse's tail flying, a mane, the rider's brocade jacket)

 

How did that poem come out of a sad book about war? 

I believe: We all carry pages of writing and stories within. Perhaps we can take the stories we've been handed in life and cross-them-out and mark-them-up and create something all together different. A better poetry.

My daughter was intrigued. What better way to learn? She chose, "The Bad Beginning," and began well!

I Never Heard Her Voice

 

A few years ago my mom gave me Grandma's brooch. It's pinned to a piece of lovely orange cloth that hangs over my bedroom dresser. I see it every morning. And every night. And I wonder about my grandmother, about being a woman, about losing your voice. 

Grandma had a stoke when she was in her 40s. After that the only sound she made was a sort of muted noise, something between a hum and a squeak and a groan. I never heard her voice.

On her dress, pinned up high on the right, she wore a silver brooch, solid and round. A silver pencil hung down from it on a recoiling chain. When grandma wanted to say something that all of her pointing and expressive eyes couldn't convey, she'd take her good left hand, pull the pen down, and scribble on a notepad, illegible to me. My mom would read it, sometimes out loud, not always, and carry on with the lopsided conversation.

I wonder if my mother ever saved any of Grandma's papers. What kind of things she wrote. The words—written slow and awkward since she'd been right-handed before her stroke—must have been carefully chosen. Did she write of her heart or only of her need to use the restroom? 

As a writer, I feel close to my grandma. I think of her often. 

She was a writer, too.